Reykjavik's midnight sun floats on the horizon. Weak, nearly heatless, it nevertheless exudes a luminous golden light. It caresses the volcanic escarpments ringing Reykjavik harbor. It softens their tortured features, and confers to them the elegance of art. Downtown, a parade of vehicles--balloon-tired 4X4s, vintage American gas guzzlers, late model luxury sedans--cruise along narrow, tree-lined streets heated by a subterranian web of hydrothermal steam pipes. Down at the city pier, onlookers with albino hair and turquoise eyes gawk at the 274 foot Knorr. They take photographs and ask if this is the same ship that discovered the Titanic. Reporters for the local paper ask for tours.
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